


That Whole "Adios" Thing

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst, Coda, Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, F/M, Flirting, Gay Panic, Homophobia, Human Castiel, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internal Monologue, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Season/Series 09, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:59:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean spends the evening dealing with a very flirty and very <em>drunk</em> human!Cas...and coming to terms with his own realization that maybe it's more than just aesthetics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Whole "Adios" Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This makes some references to _1 + 1 = 0_ if you'd like to read that first, though it's not necessary.

So. Human Cas is apparently a  _flirty_ drunk.

It’s not that he’s never been drunk before. You still remember nearly choking on your own spit when he said he’d been on some freaking bender that somehow led to chugging down a whole damn liquor store. But he was still part of the God Squad back then. Only thing stiffer than a straight line of Jim Beam was Smitey McSmiterson himself, and if you thought the dude was scary enough when he’s all prim and proper, you sure as shit don’t get in his way when he’s looking like something that’s got you wondering if he’s dragged another soul outta hell—and no, you weren’t jealous, okay, Sam? Jesus. Guy doesn’t even know how to tell a joke, though he was really nailing it with all the digs he was throwing at you two that night. Castiel, angel of  _suck my dick, Winchester, because I don’t give a flying fuck._

Okay, so that part was kind of…whatever. Something that rhymes with “not.” Only like, the total  _opposite_  of “not.”

Christ, you’re not even through your third beer, and you’re already ‘bout as incoherent as this friggin’ lightweight over here. One “brewski,” shit.

Point is, this isn’t exactly the Cas you’re used to seeing. Most of the time you’ve known him, he’s been a ticking bomb, and you never knew if he was gonna pop in like some nuked-up tree topper or something that just crawled out of the primordial ooze. But Cas waltzing right onto the crime scene, all spiffed up in that brand-spanking new suit of his? Smiling?  _Winking?_  Yeah. That’s different.

And he’s not winking at Sam. God help you; he’s not winking at Sam.

Not that, y’know, the trench coat’s never served him well—and  _not_ that you were paying attention to that kinda thing—but he looks…y’know. He looks good, all right? “Aesthetics.” That was the word Sam said you were fishing for. So yeah, sure, pure aesthetics, Sammy. Can’t a dude compliment another dude on his appearance without someone going all Spanish Inquisition on him?

Also, that pool table jumped out of nowhere.

But even though he’s looking a little softer around the edges and not trying to make some lame Enochian punch line that you’re pretty sure had something to do with bestiality, he’s still got that mouth on him. A mouth that even the beautiful, busty waitress is makin’ eyes at, and suddenly, it hits you like a brick that you’re honest-to-God not sure which of ‘em’s got your attention more.

Fine, fuck,  _fine._  It’s a little more than aesthetics, okay? Jesus, get a hold of yourself.

Fucking Idaho, man. Ever since that night you’n Cas, uh…shared the general vicinity of the, ah, sleeping…bed…area, you haven’t been able to shake it off. How…not weird it felt. Thing is, you don’t know if you want to. And even if you did, your brain won’t freaking shut up about it, reminding you that back at the bunker, you’ve only got the one bed with the one pillow and the one sad sack who lies awake at three in the morning because the nightcap isn’t strong enough to numb away the cold.

It’s not strong enough to black out those thoughts of needing to feel something other than your own flesh and blood, neither. Needing to feel something other than all the cuts and the lumps from the things that go bump in the night. Needing to feel…shit, just  _something._  And dammit, you’ve tried. Tried telling yourself that maybe it’s been so long since you’ve had any real fun that you’ll take scraps from anyone who’s willing to throw them your way. Even tried proving it to yourself by picking up some chick from some roadside dive only to wake up with a bad case of gut rot that wasn’t because of the house special.

And the person you’d been thinking of hadn’t been the two-parts legs, one-part sexual fury that’d just slammed the door behind her.

Then there was Suzy. Oh, man, there was Suzy. And mmm, those tacos. Hell, quesadillas or tortillas—she could have you on any kind of flatbread. That is, till you were working over those perky nipples of hers and stopped mid-nibble when you started hearing those dorky one-liners in the back of your head.  _No, he’s not on any flatbread._

You hadn’t even realized you’d hesitated till she asked you if something was wrong, and the only thing you could blurt out was that the two of you should head down to the gas station afterwards and pick up some taquitos. Yeah,  _that_  wasn’t awkward.

But this whole Cas mindfuck, believe it or not, isn’t what’s really itching at you, despite how you know he’s wrapping his lips around the bottleneck like that on purpose. It’s not even the whole human and finding that white picket fence kind of thing. Hey, you’ve encouraged it. Far as you’re concerned, if Cas thinks he’s discovered a bit of peace and joy on this hunk of rock, then all the power to him. You’re happy for him.

Least, you want to be happy for him. Instead, you’re torn between giving him one hell of a hug or calling him the stupidest son of a bitch you’ve ever known. Maybe both. Because for whatever dumbfuck reason, out of all the things he could’ve done with his life, made something of his life, he still wants back in. Actually  _wants_ to be a part of the family business. Who the hell  _chooses_ that kinda life? Especially after all you’ve done is push him away.

And tonight, you’re gonna have to do it all over again.

Not gonna lie; you’ve been leaning on the hope that Zeke’s finally gonna get his panties out of that twist and lay off both Cas and your brother. ‘Cause by this point, you’re having a hard time choking down that feeling that the dude’s been freeloading for weeks. Sam should be fully healed by now, right? But when that dick goes all Blue Steel on you after Cas stumbles off to order another round, he gives you that look like your ass better polish off your boot or it’ll mean Very Bad Things for Sammy.

You’re all but ready to take a friggin’ crowbar and pry some actual answers out of him, but Zeke’s keeping that shit tighter than a re-hymenated…hymen, forcing you to deliver yet another blow to what already feels like a sinking ship. Seems like the truth’s—well, the part you can manage—good for nothin’ but sobering up. ‘Cept you got a headache worse than a .17 BAC level wreaks; a burn in your throat worse than any whiskey inflicts when you’re expecting some sorta protest and all you get is static.

Then again, silence says more than words ever could, don’t it? Like how you just ain’t right inside without that gravelly voice making some wisecrack that’s a little too heavy on the “crack,” or shit, even rambling on about those goddamn bees. You thought you’d never say this, but you kinda miss your talks with that bird about his bees.

And when you let him hang an arm around your shoulder as you help him to the car, you get the sense you’re gonna miss a hell of a lot more.

Sam/Zeke/whoever the fuck he is hitchhikes back to the motel ‘cause you’re adamant about seeing Cas to his own room. The guy somehow snuck in another beer before you decided to take off, and it might’ve been a different story when he still had powers, but now he bruises like the rest of you. Dies like the rest of you. And even if you can’t make it back in one piece, you’re sure as hell gonna make sure he does.

Turns out to be more difficult than you’d thought, Cas groaning into your neck while you struggle to help him find his motel key. “Mmmpf.” God, you hope he doesn’t have to puke right now. “You smell nice.”

"It’s called deodorant, Sherlock."

Instead of actually being, you know,  _useful_ and looking for the key, Cas deflects your questions and makes a game of it, practically forcing you to frisk the dude TSA-style. But even after you’ve checked him from the waist down—and shut up, Cas; no, you’re not gonna do a freaking cavity search—you’re still coming up empty-handed. “Seriously, Cas, where’s the damn key?”

He props himself up against the door and reaches into his breast pocket, not bothering in the slightest to hide that cheeky little smirk as the key dangles from his fingers.

"What the hell? It was in your jacket the whole time?"

You’re pretty sure this isn’t possible, but Cas actually…well, the bastard fucking  _giggles._  "Yeah."

Awesome. Just…awesome. Clearly not a master of subtlety, are we? You’re beginning to wonder if he’d even heard you at all about not being able to work together.

Not that you mind pretending for a moment that you’re really not that much of a dick.

"Okay, Lindsay Lohan," you say as you guide him inside, "before I drag your ass off to rehab with the rest of the Disney princesses, take this." You shove a tall glass of water and a couple painkillers in his hands, and you’re not the least bit surprised when he gets all squinty at you. "Drink it. All of it. You’ll thank me in the morning."

You slap him on the shoulder and turn to leave, but then you spot the bed, and suddenly, you’re jerked back to the night you’d bunked with Cas. Accidentally getting tangled up underneath the sheets. Not-so-accidentally scooting up against him and, uh…other…stuff. Dopey cuddly stuff that you’re totally not into, but…y’know, he was just there, and…

He was  _there._

It takes more willpower than you’d like to admit to get a foot out the door, ‘specially since Cas starts loosening his tie and popping the first couple’a buttons right in front of you. Like you’re supposed to give him some kinda performance evaluation on what you’d taught him. And oh, hell, that son of a bitch’s going for the extra credit, isn’t he, fingering a third and fourth button as he leans in dangerously close. It’s nothin’ new, him being all up in your personal space like he just might zap you back to the womb, but this time, it’s a different kind of lightning you’re waiting for to strike. There’s a lump in the back of your throat when the tie slips off, Cas’ eyes thick-lidded and all glazed over, and…did you just lick your lips?

You just licked your fucking lips.

Okay, ah… _hah. Whoo._ Gettin’ a little too _Brokeback Mountain_ for you in here. You paw for the door knob, trying to think back to the waitress at the bar and that sexy little number of a skirt she was barely wearing over those awesomely-shaped curves of hers, but then you remember Cas tilting towards your ear and saying something about wanting to tap that ass which somehow makes it even hotter and  _jesuschristfuck_ you need to get out of here.

"I gotta…yeah." Totally ignoring that your legs aren’t the only parts of you doing some shifting right now. "The go…thing." Your exit strategy might not be any kind of graceful, but at least you’re out in the fresh air. Sweet mother of Jesus, fresh air. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath before you turn back, watching Cas feel around for something to hold onto till he finally stumbles into the doorway. Yeah, there you go, genius.

"You’re going to regret it," he says. "Walking away from me."

 _Get in line,_  you wanna say. He isn’t the first, and he certainly won’t be the last. Regret’s had a contract out on you for so long, you don’t even remember what it’s like not always having something tying your hands behind your back—and not in the fun way.

But instead, the only sorta words you can manage are, “I know, Cas,” and even then, you feel the pinch in the back of your jaw before gritting your teeth and forcing the rest down your throat.

It’s like swallowing shrapnel.

Least Baby’s waiting for you when you pull away. But after the windows are rolled down and the music’s cranked up, it doesn’t drown out the thoughts screaming to get your ass back to that motel and…fuck, you don’t even know anymore. This whole damn thing’s got you stuck in some Twilight Zone where the entire fucking solar system’s spinning over your head and you’re not sure when it’s gonna stop. Only thing you do know is that when Cas moved in on you with his face right there—right fucking  _there_ —it would’ve been so easy to…

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ He’s your fucking best friend. That’s just fucking weird, right?

Why doesn’t it feel weird?

It’s not like you’ve never seen another dude’s dick before. Hell, after enough drinks, you might even admit to sucking a few of ‘em when pool hustling couldn’t pay the bills. Ain’t exactly dignified, but your brother ain’t going hungry, neither. Not like you got any sense of dignity to lose in the first place.

Would’ve made your dad proud. Real proud.

'Cept you're pretty damn sure he knew when the empty shot glass went down on the table and the fist came up.

Survival. It’s always been about survival. Clawing and scratching and bleeding your way through only to do the same damn thing all over again the next day. And every time there might be something more than that, you call bullshit because all happiness has ever shown you is that people either wind up dead or worse. So why the hell should Cas be any different?

Except he is. He  _is_ different. Because he fucking  _gets_ it, man. He gets the pain and the nightmares and the literal skeletons in the closet—the one thing you never could’ve expected from Lisa or anyone else. You got trouble on your tail anywhere you go, and anyone that got close to you was only signing themselves up for their head on a stick. But this…this jackass? He’s showing up on your doorstep and throwing himself back in the game because he’s in this for the long run, whether you like it or not.

Even after all the things you’ve done. Even after he saw what you did down there; saw what you’d become. Saw how you tore through sinew and flesh, and even though he stared you so far down into your soul you were getting chills, he still wondered why you thought you didn’t deserve to be saved. Because, yeah, Cas, shouldn’t it be completely fucking obvious?

Or maybe you’re the oblivious one.

For a guy that was all pomp and circumstance the first time you met him, you didn’t expect Cas to feel so small when you had yourself pressed up against him that night. The knowledge of a billion galaxies crammed into one little nerdy dude without his wings. Like you were holding the entire fucking universe in your arms.

Ugh, you gonna start quoting poetry now? Christ.

It scared the crap outta you, but yeah, okay, you liked it. You  _wanted_ it. Because for those two hours of your life, you had something to hold onto again, and maybe…maybe just for one stupid moment, you didn’t want anything else to matter. You didn’t want it to matter that your dick was up against his ass and you were this close to giving in and biting his name into the back of his neck. And shit, just thinking about it gets you—

Your throat tightens up when your hand slips to your crotch.

Oh, God, you really  _are_ hard.

Okay, this is…fuck. Fuck, okay. You need to cool it. You’re almost back to your motel; you’ll chug a few more beers, pass out, and in the morning, you’ll pretend like this never happened. Just like Dad always told you to do. ‘Cause as long as you both could pretend that you’re really not that sucky at poker, then maybe it’d give him a reason to look you in the eye again. Like maybe you could be his son again.

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the wheel, hoping that zeroing in on the outstretched road will help clear the mind. When that doesn’t work, you think of dead puppies. Turducken. Samuel Campbell. With those creepy ass eyebrows that look like they’re about to crawl off his forehead. Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. Maybe a little  _too_  good, yikes.

Course, then there’s that part where Samuel walked in on Cas popping a boner at the pizza man and you happening to be there and  _why do you even find that remotely hot new fucking subject please._

You think back to Suzy and her perky nipples, because fine, if you’re so goddamn horny, at least go for known territory. Doesn’t take much to remember all those curves under that sweatshirt, how that girl knows damn well how to use ‘em when she’s giving you what may have been the best friggin’ lap dance of your life. You can feel that familiar burn making its way down through your groin now, that rush of blood as you palm over the front of your pants and give your dick a squeeze, nice and slow. The eyelids begin to flutter when you picture that ass easing back into your crotch just enough to make you beg for it, and oh, God, do you beg for it—whimpering, even, as fingers curl around your own and lead you into bed. You come in from behind, burying your face in that mango-scented hair and working your magic around the ear as you tease out a whine.

"Yeah, baby, you like that, huh?" And shit, it’s getting tight in your pants when you imagine yourself rolling your hips up against a backside that arcs into you, latching your teeth onto that earlobe and bite-sucking until you let out a moan of your own. "Fuck… _Cas…_ ”

It’s too late to choke back the name once it’s out in the open, and your heart feels like it’s about to beat right out of your fucking chest when the realization clicks.

No, this…this isn’t  _you._  You’ve always been an old-fashioned T&A kind of guy, right? You’ve got the several years’ worth of  _Busty Asian Beauties_  back issues to prove it. Just because you’ve blown a few dudes doesn’t mean you’ve actually  _enjoyed_  it. And don’t even go there with Cas. Not even hypothetically. No, naw, absolutely not. This is  _Cas_  you’re talkin’ about. The dude who used to bust through barn doors, black out entire zip codes, and barely blink an eye when you pumped him full of shot. The dude who fell for you and rebelled for you; who died for you and fuck, you miss him so fucking—

Fuck it. Fuck it; you don’t  _care_ anymore.

You pull over on some back dirt road—because of all the dumbass things you’ve done lately, making the news for jacking off at the wheel isn’t gonna be one of them—scrambling through your glove compartment for a half-pack of tissues and a packet of lube. You’re trying not to gulp when you fumble for the zipper, even though it’s like your lungs are in your fucking throat and you can’t believe you’re actually fucking doing this and holy shit you really need to relax right now. Ugh, so ridiculously embarrassing that you even have to coach yourself through something like this. What, you need to light a bunch of friggin’ candles and put on the Vandross or something?

Relax. Right. Okay. You felt relaxed when you were with Cas that night, right? Focus on that. Yeah, there you go; just ease into it. Think about all that body heat next to you, all that warmth pooling in your gut when you run a hand down his thigh and rub up against him. And shit… _shit,_  you’re hard again, feeling along the outline of your dick in your boxer briefs before pulling them down and biting back your bottom lip when the head bobs.

You wonder if he’d be getting off on all this right now, too. But hell, who you really kiddin’ here; you’ve been eye-fucking each other since day one. No doubt in your mind he’s begging for it just as much as you, moaning just as much as you when you nip at his shoulder and grind into him. “Fuck, yeah, you don’t want me to stop, do you, Cas?”

Because God, does it feel good. So fucking good, your dick’s leaking at the tip by the time you reach for the lube, slathering it on with a real nice and loose grip at first and tugging a little tighter as you go. And maybe Cas’ gone off and popped the proverbial cherry, but it doesn’t stop you from wondering if hedonism’s ever touched him like this. ‘Cause you’d sure as fuck know all the places that April chick didn’t, and fuck, yeah, you’d make him feel freaking amazing, all right. Snap that elastic at his hip to get a rise out of him. Scratch at the hairs along his waistline till he starts whining for you to jerk him off already.

You’re feelin’ pretty freaking amazing yourself, working your dick in your palm exactly like you’d work him over, pressing a thumb along the slit just hard enough to draw out a strangled groan and watch him squirm; rolling his balls in the cup of your hand and feeling his dick pulse as you stroke up his length. You bet he’s a big boy, too, if that one time he showed up naked on your car is any indication. Though you coulda done without the swarm of bees—yeah, okay, moving on from _that_ buzzkill.

Jesus Christ, you’re aching for it bad now, rutting up against his ass cheeks as you breathe his name sloppy and wet into the back of his neck; finding that rough patch of stubble at the corner of his jaw and kissing the fuck out of it like you shoulda kissed him back at the motel. And shit, you still seriously can’t believe you’ve let it go this far, but it feels so damn good, bucking your hips into your lubed-up hand. Imagining what it’d be like to feel his dick sliding against yours, getting him all fucking dirty and slick with your jizz and fuck,  _fuck,_  you’re actually gonna come. You’re actually gonna fucking—

“ _Cas!_ ”

You’re so wrecked, you don’t even recognize the voice coming outta your mouth. That…did that…did you just…

The answer’s yes. The answer’s so fucking clearly a yes that you’re still feeling the shakes after the sex fog disappears. And if your clockwork wasn’t still ticking in your chest, you’d swear you’d just given up the ghost.

But hey, there’s a bonus: God—if he still even exists—hasn’t struck you dead yet. Yeah, okay, “yet” is kinda the keyword, but focusing on the positive, all right? Dude probably would’ve smoked your ass a long time ago if he didn’t approve of your extra-curricular activities (shut up, those other times don’t count).

Fuck, the answer’s  _yes._

You get cleaned up the best you can, then turn Baby over so you can head back to your motel and meet up with Sam, who’s gonna start wondering soon. And you ain’t anxious to give him a reason to.

Shit, what a night. You’re beginning to wish you’d kept some of those painkillers you gave Cas for yourself because God knows you’re gonna need them tomorrow morning when it finally dawns on you exactly what the fuck just happened.

And how you have to let it all go to waste again.

But there’s this thing about always saying goodbye. Makes you wonder—makes you  _hope_ —that maybe one of these days, you’ll open up your eyes and hear the words you haven’t heard in months. Because yeah. All right. Joke’s on you; ha, ha… _whatever._

But he really fucking had you at, “Hello, Dean.”


End file.
